Uffie is not Duffy
Jack Black is not Jack White
Kate Moross is not Kate Moss
[MELANIE WARD - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Ways to cuddle up to the Imaginary Socialite:
1. Crash my TopShop dressing room.
2. Share my seat on the tour bus.
3. Get me out of bed for yoga.
4. Be my Facebook friend!
Search for email@example.com and click “add.” Promise not to send you stupid “patch of green grass” requests.
[ALANA ZIMMER - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
This Balenciaga City bag is filled with empty “organic” pill bottles.
Were they taken to delude someone into thinking she was carrying a real Balenciaga bag?
Or swallowed to cope with the fact that, even in these times, she’d paid for a real Balenciaga bag?
Leave your guesses after the beep.
PS: Yes, that’s a bottle of Essie’s Quicksilver nail polish, and yes, it’s really better than the one from Chanel. An inconvenient truth, if ever there was one.
[JULIA FRAKES - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
1. Alec Baldwin’s hipster adoption program – good for one free plate of Szechuan coleslaw at Shang.
2. Lissy T + designer/ movie star = true love?
3. James Franco’s pretend crush on a girl. A girl in his writing class, I mean.
4. Proof that Ryan Adams and Mandy Moore are serious about this engagement thing: He’s giving up his apartment in Union Square to move in with her. You don’t mess with real estate unless it’s the real deal.
5. Bed Stuy is the new Beatrice.
[JOSH BROLIN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
ONE. “What was your sorority like?”
An odd question for a Brooklyn tea party, but okay.
“We were fun,” I start. “Nicer than most of them” I guess. “Sort of… wild. Like, um, I don’t know. Sisterhood of the Traveling Panties.”
“Save that name,” he slides. “You know, in case you ever write a softcore sitcom.”
“Hey,” he glints, “I’d watch it.”
TWO. New party, same borough, a room emptying out of two couples, and one of them’s yours. Stomachs rumble and the boys grumble for veggie burgers, and I’m sitting on the couch, ignored.
I don’t really care, but after everyone goes, you come back through the arch alone, and “Heyyyy, how’s it going?” and a hug before I shove back, “What the hell? I was sitting right next to you, like, al night!”
Your smile is too big for my snarl, and we are the only ones here.
THREE. Dirty jokes on the subway lead to dirty streets of Manhattan lead to dirty dancing in the Thompson LES bathroom.
“We’re the only ones here who aren’t coked out,” he laughs, but I can’t tell if he means “the only ones in the bathroom” or “the only ones in the world.” Either seem true right now, and right now is 2:30 am.
“All the girls here are so pretty,” he says.
“So go talk to them,” I nudge. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
But his feet stay frozen.
FOUR. “I know the girl who bartends here,” he says, but I can see sun streaks and I’m all pubbed out. But I peek quick through the window grime and it shows this: She thinks if it were the ’40s, she’d be a pinup girl who also worked on cars.
“Goodnight babe,” I smile, and he tries to kiss me but I’m already gone, striding it home ten blocks. And if it were the ’40s, I would have done the same thing.
[TAMSIN DORLING - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
There’s a steel train coming through, I would take it if I could
And I would not lie to you because Sunday morning soon will come.
When things will be much easier to say upon the microphone like a Boss DJ
But I wont walk up upon the sea like it was dry land. A Boss DJ ain’t nothing but a man.
[HADLEY FREEMAN - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]